


Echoes of a Broken Angel

by BelladonnaNightshade



Series: Of The Angel [1]
Category: Heroes of Olympus - Fandom, Percy Jackson and the Olympians, rick riordan - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-05
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7099348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaNightshade/pseuds/BelladonnaNightshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm fine." "I'M PERFECTLY NORMAL!" "Fuck off." "Stop pretending to care." It was always the same pattern. After the Titan War, they shunned him. After the Greeks and Romans clashed, their silent gazes labeled him traitor. After Tartarus, he was brushed passed in favour of Percy and Annabeth. And after the Giant War, he cared not to look; it was no longer worth a broken heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echoes of a Broken Angel

He was shattering, an angel made of broken glass and one too many farewells. The shards of his soul were ethereal, bathed in the bloodied light of insincere acceptance and broken promises. He had stopped listening to their stuttering appologies, their flickering eyes and skiddish stances further emphasizing a moot points. He was the son of Hades and the Ghost King, they were afraid, therefore rejecting him, it was always the same pattern. After the Titan War, they shunned him. After the Greeks and Romans clashed, their silent gazes labeled him traitor. After Tartarus, he was brushed passed in favour of Percy and Annabeth. And after the Giant War, he cared not to look; it was no longer worth a broken heart.  
Their eyes followed him, concerned and calculating. He only perceived whispers and stares. They asked him if he was okay. He nodded and slipped into darkness. They put food on his plate. He sacrificed all of it to Hades. They told him to get some sleep. He shadow traveles to his cabin, it burns more calories than walking. He stares at his bed. It looks like a coffin, and he wishes that it were, wishes to be just a corpse lying in it. But he collapses nonetheless, and dreams.  
"You're worthless..."  
"It should've been you, not Bianca..."  
"Obese..."  
"You are not fit to be my son..."  
"Stay in Tartarus, you deserve it..."  
"Faggot..."  
"You're worse than Octavian, at least he was once sane..."  
"We don't want you here..."  
"Go on, spill your blood..."  
"Coward, you should've died..."  
"Nico, I hate you..."  
He is back in the bronze jar, faces undulating and distorting before him. Their whispers echo in an endless cadence, sad, angry, venomous, accusatory. The jar constricts and the whispers multiply. He panics, tears streaming from glassy, obsidian eyes. Choked pleas issue forth from bitten and bloodied lips, he cannot hear his ragged gasps over the torrent of voices.  
"Too late..."  
"You are nothing..."  
"Give up..."  
"Fat..."  
"Ugly..."  
"Brainless..."  
"You are not welcome here..."  
He claws at his arms, opening scars and fresh wounds alike. Scarlet blood trickles in crimson rivulets, staining his pallid flesh.  
"You are a demon..."  
"You're blood should be black, Freak..."  
He woke with a scream and bloodstained skin. Their voices seem to reverberate throughout his subcontience, their words engrave themselves behind his eyelids. He stumbles to the shower near his cabin, stripping himself of his dark clothing and stepping under the frigid spray. As he goes through the motions of washing his hair and body, his mind is elsewhere. The icy water numbs him, he does not mind, he welcomes the nothingness.  
The soap has long since run down the drain. Blood no longer colours the water. He tries to clear his head, but self-loathing seethes with a burgeoning hunger throughout his being. He wants to yell and tell himself to shut up, but he is to numb and cold to open his mouth. His tears carve fiery paths down his frozen cheeks. His eyes flicker listlessly, until he focuses on the temperature dial. With a burst of viscious fury, one of his pale, skeletal hands reach out and twists the golden skull. The water gradually warms, then heats, then burns. The numbness fades to be replaced by searing agony. He does not mind. He imagines his skin burning to ashes, his blood evaporating until no more than a thick, crimson mist. But he knows that others are waiting. The skull is turned, the water ceases to fall. Nico di Angelo steps out of the shower shivering, skin red and blistered.  
He attempts to avert his eyes, but the mirror has other ideas. The polished glass mocks him from its silver frame. His eyes seem to be magnetically drawn to the image staring back. He is beyond thin, practically skin and bone. His face is gaunt and haunted, eyes sunken and vacant. He looks so fragile and delicate, laced with scars and lacerations.  
But as dark eyes roam over the figure in the mirror, all he sees is fat and blubber, worthless rolls of mass and uselessness, just taking up space. The tears come, once again unbidden. shadows writhe around him, the ghostly whispers return. The mirror shatters, not unlike his angelic self. Nico just stares with unseeing eyes.  
He does not go to breakfast in the dining pavilian, choosing instead to raise his sword against skeletons in the woods. Lunch goes by forgotten, and dinner is not worth throwing up later.  
Hazel worries for her brother. Reyna cannot stop pacing. Jason knows something is wrong. Will is determined to heal Nico. Even Percy is not clueless. But Nico insists he is fine.  
He has stopped sleeping. The nightmares always return. So he spends his nights carving pretty little pictures and apologies to the voices. He engraves their words into himself, after all, it is the blood that matters. Blood symbolizes one's status in life, without blood there is no life force. It is simple. They don't want him. He offers his blood.  
He has a routine now. Get up. Burning or frigid shower. Skip breakfast. Train in the woods. Skip lunch. Find a scale. Loose 5 pounds each day. Fight with the others and quell their concerns. Since it is fruitless, shadow travel into his cabin and lock the door. Skip dinner. Stare in the mirror with a breath mint in one hand and a blade in the other. One mint, five calories. Skip bonfire. Carve pretty little pictures and apologies.  
They will not listen to him. His shoulder blades protrude like bony wings. His eyes are so empty. His smile is so broken. They know he is not okay. He has shadow traveled to his cabin once again, but they will not leave him alone this time.  
"Nico," Jason calls. "We know you're in there. Open the door."  
"He sounds like a commander, a general, a praetor. There is no response.  
"Nico," it is Will calling. "Please..."  
"Nico, open the door or we will destroy it."  
It is Percy who speaks. He does not sound threatening, just firm and steady. Still, Nico does not responde.  
It is relatively easy to break down the door. Nico is standing in front of a guilded mirror. He has dropped the items in his hands.  
"I'm fine!"  
"His voice is dry, cracking at the end. Will approaches, followed by Jason and then Percy. Nico turns. His eyes are wild, like those of a cornered animal.  
"We know something's wrong," Will pleads. He reaches out to touch Nico's shoulder.  
"Fuck off!" Nico hisses. "I'm fine! Stop pretending like you actually care."  
Will steps back, hurt. Nico hugs his stomach defensively.  
"Neeks-" Percy begins.  
"I'M PERFECTLY NORMAL!" Nico screams. he accompanies his proclamation by promptly passing out.  
He wakes in the infirmary with a needle in his arm dripping fluid. He struggles to sit but is too weak. Confusion and frustration rise in his throat and tears burn behind his eyes.  
"Helpless..."  
"Pathetic..  
He writhes with an animalistic desperation, tearing the needle from his arm in the process. He scrabbles toward the edge of the bed and vomits. He is about to shadow travel away, but Will appears.  
"I don't need your fucking help."  
Nico curls in on himself. It is so unbearably cold. Will bustles around, arranging blankets and fetching pills.  
"I'm so sorry, Nico." He repeats this as if it is somehow all his fault. Nico doesn't reply. He cannot.  
"End it now, Ghost King..."  
"This is your chance to prove yourself..."  
"Show that you are not a coward..."  
As soon as Will turns to grab a seringe, Nico calls the shadows one last time. He has no destination. The goal is not to appear somewhere. He glimpsed Will turning with a horrified expression before the darkness cloaked him. In reality, he moved not. The shadows spiraled around his body, taking with them his energy and life force.  
The pain is like nothing he has experienced before. He screams, but does not loose control. He wants this. He wishes that he could spill his blood, but the voices seem to be content with this. Fading into a pool of inky blackness was not the way Nico expected to end his life, but it served its purpose. He cannot see Will screaming, he cannot feel Will's tears falling on his face. He is not aware of Percy, Jason, Chiron, all of them crowding around his bed.  
The shadows disappear. The darkness fades. and Nico di Angelo's soul has completely shattered into five shards. One in the Aceron, one in the Lethe, one in the Phlegethon, one in the Cocytus, and one in the Styx. But his body is still there. He looks so beautiful, like a broken angel fallen from a eutopia of sorrow. His face is serene and emotionless, his chest no longer rises or falls. His body bears the echoes of voices non-existent.

**Author's Note:**

> I referenced the five rivers of the Underworld, please forgive any mistakes made. Please also coment if you have a oneshot or plot you'd like to see, or just so I can hear your input. Criticism is much appreciated, I do not claim to be a good author. Belladonna Nightshade.


End file.
